


rest, unburden

by deuxjolras



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Sleep Deprivation, love is stored in the Tormund
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 09:22:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19226257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxjolras/pseuds/deuxjolras
Summary: After the end, Jon has trouble sleeping.





	rest, unburden

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a wild and confusing ride, but here we are. Thank you [@thighs-without-mercy](https://thighs-without-mercy.tumblr.com) for beta reading, [@eventual-consistency](https://eventual-consistency.tumblr.com) for being emotional about this ship together with me, and [@troven](https://pillowfort.io/troven) for the encouragment!

On the other side of the wall, Jon's mind is quieter. His thoughts are muffled by their slow but steady pace, the ambient noise of hooves and feet alike meeting the frozen ground, the soft murmur of voices, and the wind burning his cheeks, constantly keeping him anchored in the present. And there's Tormund, too, ever-present in Jon's peripheral vision, looking back at Jon when he turns in his saddle and squints against the sunlight to reassure himself he's still there behind him.

At night, though, the quiet outside of his tent, composed solely of the rustling of the trees and maybe a crackling fire, does a bad job at keeping out the images hanging at the edge of his mind, right where his thoughts begin to fray. Alone, exhausted and with his day's work done, it becomes more and more difficult to keep his guard up: The wall in his mind behind which he banished everything when he left the South costs too much effort to uphold, then and what he's trying to forget tumbles over its edge again, one piece after another, almost as if to taunt him. It's why Jon made a habit of staying up late and pacing around the campsites during the long return to Castle Black, and it's why he props himself up against his bags instead of lying down now, concentrating on staying awake by staring into the darkness, listening to Ghost's deep breaths, until he collapses from sheer exhaustion and falls headfirst into one or two hours of dreamless sleep.

The morning will be too bright for him, later, his mind feeling as if on the verge of fracture as his vision will threaten to slip and he'll need to keep focusing his eyes again and again. But he'll pull himself together, warm himself up and let the tension carry him through the next day. Maybe someone will hand him a warm drink when he staggers out of his tent, or he'll meet a compassionate glance, and Jon will feel worse for causing them sorrow. After all, he has carried on like this for months, and it's not like he's on the verge of breaking down.

On the road, Tormund will occupy his thoughts by talking plans and routes and pointing out landmarks to him, always steering clear of the past or of asking what happened in the South. He probably knows the better part of it, anyway: He knew Jon was coming back and he knew that he'd take his vows again. Still, he was waiting for him when the gate was lifted and the echoes of Jon's old life engulfed him like they wanted to drown him, and his gaze was both acceptance and a silent offer.

It makes Jon wonder, every now and then, if Tormund knew what he was getting into – what he was burdening himself with.

 

Despite his insistence, the lack of sleep starts to wear on Jon after barely a few weeks. He blames it on his body slowly catching up with the fact that he's not facing any imminent threats anymore. Being north – the true North – is causing him to slowly settle into something. Jon is reluctant to call it a life, or even a routine, but the tension that he needs in order to keep the nightmares at bay and his body to continue working regardless of how little rest he grants it is slipping away, little by little, and every day it gets a bit harder to bring himself to stand, and to work, and to ride. More than once Jon has needed to reach for Ghost to steady himself, and just as many times he has sent the direwolf away because he's feeling nonsensical anger flickering for the slightest reasons and he can't stand any company, not even his own.

One evening, he's too tired to set up his tent. He pretends to rest for just a while and tells himself he'll stand up any moment and get to work, but his arms are too weak to pull up the poles and his legs are too shaky to stand and for once, all Jon wants is to curl up on the ground right there and sleep. He registers the steps walking up to him only when they stop right behind him and someone – Tormund, of course it's Tormund – is resting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“You need to rest”, he says.

“Go away”, Jon replies weakly, but he complies when Tormund crouches down and pulls him up with him when he stands, securing him at his shoulders. He's looking at him intently, searching for clues in Jon's face for a question that he never states. Then he says, "Sleep in my tent tonight. Bring the wolf so that I can steal all of his warmth for once. I've gotten used to that while you were gone."

With no warning, an image of Tormund clinging to Ghost in his sleep, maybe burying his face in his fur, creeps up on Jon, and he finds that an involuntary smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“That a yes?”, Tormund grins back at him, without restraint, and Jon nods, lets himself be ushered around the campsite without looking back, simply assuming that Tormund or someone else will take care of his bags, or else, that they will still be there tomorrow. Then, Tormund holds open the flaps of his own tent for him, and Jon closes his eyes while he crouches and climbs inside. He senses furs lying on the ground and holds on to the feeling for a bit while he sits, not bothering to open his eyes to look. After a while, a cold rush of air hits him right before Ghost is softly bumping his head against his temple.

“Hello there”, Jon mumbles. He reaches out to draw his direwolf closer and Ghost meets him in the middle, resting his large head on Jon's shoulder as Jon wraps his arms around his neck.

“Alright, scoot over”, Tormund's voice rumbles next to the entrance. It sounds strangely distant to Jon, almost as if he's hearing him talk through a wall, as if he's in the room next to Jon's in Winterfell. Jon wants to move, but his body is very heavy all of a sudden and he doesn't quite seem to remember how to steer it. Ghost, though – Ghost reacts to Tormund's voice with an excited pant and shuffling. Maybe he can't quite decide whom to pay attention to now that they're all in such a small confined space – they're in Tormund's tent, Jon remembers now. He opens his eyes to find Tormund looking at him with an expression so gentle that something aches inside his chest.

“First, lay down. Then, sleep”, he says with a chuckle and helps Jon disentangle his arms from Ghost and rest his head. Instinctively, Jon tries to open his eyes and fight his way back against the drowsiness – as soon as he finds himself stretched out and Tormund withdraws, the familiar fear is rushing back in, almost as if driven by muscle memory alone. Already, though, he is too far gone and the leaden tiredness keeping him under somehow makes it worse. It feels as if he's falling, so real that he feels nauseous.

There's some more shuffling and then something warm is pressing against his back: Ghost, curling up against him. Then, someone groans unnecessarily loudly and pulls something warm over both of them, rests a steady hand over Jon's arm and repeats, “Sleep”.

Jon focuses on the weight of his hand anchoring him to the ground in the tent in the night in the North, and stops falling, and falls asleep instead, and when he wakes up screaming from a nightmare, Tormund is still there, right beside him, still grounding him to reality when he tries to claw his way out of the nightmare's grasp.

 

“I can hear you thinking. You need to stop”, Tormund says the next morning. They're sitting beside the fire and the conversations of the others are too quiet to listen in, but Jon sees their glances and knows they heard him last night. Tormund is frowning, watching him watch them. “They don't see a weak man”, he tells him. “They see a strong man who has suffered and keeps going.” As Jon doesn't react, he presses ahead, trying to make him laugh: “They see a god who lives among us, too. They can surely overlook a bit of screaming if they can overlook the size of –”

He breaks off laughing as Jon tries to give him a dig in the ribs to shut him up and ends up swearing and rubbing his elbow instead.

“How do you feel?”, Tormund asks, apparently content with Jon's reaction. Jon sighs, staring into the flames instead. The truth is, he's feeling more grounded this morning, and less like slipping away: He notices the smell of the fire, picks up on the crackling of the wood, feels the ground steadily resting underneath his feet, almost as if he's a constant part of the reality he's found himself in. Still, he's not sure if sleeping was worth the price.

“Less tired”, is what he finally settles on.

“You still look like shit”, Tormund says with a faint smile. “Beautiful, but like shit.”

Jon turns his head and pretends he's watching some of the girls playing tug of war with Ghost, and that his heart didn't flutter at the second part. “I will make sure to live up to your standards next time”, he says.

“Aye”, Tormund says. “Sleep some more, then.”

“Sure”, Jon says in a flat voice, which earns him a shove and also causes Tormund to press the matter. “My standards are impossibly high”, he says. “You'll also need to wash your face to meet them.”

“If you say so.”

“And comb out your pretty hair from time to time.”

Jon rolls his eyes.

“A bath wouldn't hurt either. In case you’re planning on sleeping in my tent again.”

“I'll jump into that darned water after I've thrown you in myself”, Jon says darkly, inclining his head in the direction of the ice cold stream they've been following for the past few days.

Tormund laughs, loud enough to startle Ghost who stops mid-game to watch him for a moment. Apparently reaching a decision, he drops the rope and trots over to sit down next to them and to rest his head on Tormund's knees. They're so familiar with each other that it almost hurts: Not because Jon envies Ghost's affections, but because the direwolf is free and unconcerned with showing where they lie. He's Jon's soul, but Jon's soul unburdened. Jon knew his feelings already when he left Ghost in Tormund’s care without hesitation, and he might act on them if it were not for the weight bearing down on him that makes it hard to carry on, let alone love – let alone be loved.

“I'll take you up on that offer some time, Jon Snow, I _will_ take you up on that”, Tormund muses, and Jon looks at him and tries to remember what they were talking about. Something must show on his face because Tormund musters him, serious again all of a sudden, and leans in closer to tell him: “You were very brave tonight. You ran away from your nightmares before. Now that you've faced them you can fight them.”

Jon's throat aches, and he looks down to meet Ghost's fiery eyes instead. “I don't think it works quite like that”, he mumbles.

“Well, I think it does”, Tormund says. Something in his tone makes Jon huff a laugh, despite himself. “If you say so”, he repeats, and ruffles the fur behind Ghost's ear.

 

Jon catches Tormund staring, sometimes, in the time between him taking off his outer clothes and scrambling under Tormund's furs and blankets. There are different kinds of stares, he notices, ranging from intrigue to something else – something that makes him avert his gaze when Jon's shirt rides up and exposes the scars on his chest and that Jon takes a long time to decipher.

“You're scared of them”, he finally realises.

“I'm scared of losing you again ahead of your time, little crow”, Tormund says, and it’s the first time the nickname rolls off his tongue again ever since they reunited, and he watches Jon intently as he says it. “I saw it happen once. I don't intend to have it happen again before all of your hair has turned white, your face is wrinkly and you're too weak to hold your own pecker when you're pissing.”

There's a strange pain and it takes Jon a moment to realise he's smiling, and that his lip has cracked open in the cold. “All I hear is that you want to tease me endlessly about it.”

“Aye”, Tormund grins back at him. “But I mean it. You're here now and you're alive. Take care of yourself, Jon Snow, or I will.”

 

Reluctantly, he starts telling Tormund about his nightmares. He quietly watches Tormund's profile while they're walking further into the forest to gather firewoodand sees his brow furrow as he talks about sitting on the throne with a crown cutting deep and bloody into his forehead, Sansa and Bran kneeling at his feet, and noticing that it's not iron swords he's resting on but a pile of decaying bodies, dead eyes staring up at him and cold hands having grown stiff around his wrists and ankles. He presses his face into Tormund's warm back in the mid of the night, his throat aching from his hoarse screaming, and whispers about flying and breathing fire on soldiers screaming in agony, until a bolt hits his heart and he tumbles into free fall.

He keeps his eyes closed as the early morning sun prompts him awake and his head pounds and he's feeling numb, recoiling from touch as he speaks quietly, brokenly, about bracing himself to cut the rope and turning around to see Rickon hanged instead of Olly, or Daenerys, or sometimes, himself. He speaks about the empty nothingness that keeps him trapped during some nights, refusing to let him wake up for what seems like an eternity until he's sure he has died again, and lets Tormund hold him through it.

Someday, they'll find that patch of land that they're looking for, the one where they'll decide to stay, at least for a few years. Tormund will usher him around the site, explaining to him in detail its advantages, and then digress into a detailed description of what kind of home he wants to build, and it will go unspoken that he's offering Jon to share it with him.

For now, they share their warmth at night instead, and warm smiles and the grasp of hands during daytime, and before he braces himself for the night's terrors, Jon rests his forehead against Tormund's and whispers, “I want to stay with you.”

“I know, little crow”, Tormund mumbles back at him, pushing a stubborn curl out of the way. “I'll be here when you wake up. Rest.”

Jon closes his eyes and knows there's a morning waiting for him on the other side, no matter how he feels about it.

**Author's Note:**

> [(link to Tumblr post)](https://threephasebird.tumblr.com/post/185802519706/)


End file.
